


A Real Nice Knife

by stunrunner



Category: Homestuck, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Alcohol, Drinking, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 02:19:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2834585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stunrunner/pseuds/stunrunner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're on top of the world perched on your barstool in the Obsidian Cantina, shucking out a fifty with a wink to that pretty waitress with the deliciously round bottom simply because you can, trying in vain to put together a pun about buns to use later...</p>
<p>...When suddenly you become aware that <em>he's</em> just walked in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Real Nice Knife

**Author's Note:**

> An Intermistletoe 2014 gift for Nokmiet!

It's midnight at one of your favorite bars that you own, and there are few places you'd rather be right now. The band is doing a great job—not as great as if the Crew were playing, but you're a few too many whiskys deep to tickle those ivories as well as you might, and while most people'd think Droog's fine to lay down some smooth sax, you know him well enough to recognize the slight waver as he sets down his drink, the slightly-too-long pause between joke and polite smile. And who the hell knows how Boxcars and Clubs are. You gave up trying to decipher Deuce's sobriety that night with all the tequila shots and cherry bombs, and Hearts is such a huge goddamn tank that you have no concept of his tolerance whatsoever. Either way, they both seem happy, Deuce sketching on a napkin excitedly and Boxcars smooth-talking some dainty Prospitian broad perched on his massive knee.

So what all this boils down to is that you're on top of the world perched on your barstool in the Obsidian Cantina, shucking out a fifty with a wink to that pretty waitress with the deliciously round bottom simply because you can, trying in vain to put together a pun about buns to use later...

...When suddenly you become aware that _he's_ just walked in.

Your eyes narrow as you watch him weave through the crowd making his way up to the bar. A cheerful wave to a buddy here, a roguish grin to a pretty dame there. His long white coat is stained on one lapel, the edges of his hat are frayed and worn, you're willing to bet his watch _still_ doesn't have a working battery in it... And yet, none of this makes you any less pleased or irritated to see him.

He leans over the polished black stone of the bar to yell his drink order over the drums and trumpet that have just started up again. As the barkeep begins mixing (grabbing only bottom-shelf bottles of rotgut, of course), Sleuth straightens and finally sees you watching him. After receiving his drink and passing a few bills to the bartender, he slips between the tables and other patrons, eventually settling into the empty stool to your right. You take a slug of your whisky and try not to appreciate how he always manages to put himself on the side with your good eye. Fucker probably doesn't even do it on purpose.

“Well, fancy running into you here. How's it going, Slick?”

“Yeah, fancy running into the owner of a bar. At the bar that he owns. Real fancy,” you grumble. “How the fuck did you get past the bouncers anyway?”

You refuse to watch his dimples deepen in that goddamn shit-eating grin. You can feel your eyes being drawn to his, that magnetic Pulchritude working to pull them to him, black iron filings toward a brilliantly green lodestone. _A stupid lodestone,_ you force yourself to think, ignoring the mixed metaphor. _With a shitty, stupid hat. And a nice ass. Goddammit._

He swirls the ice cubes in his gin and tonic, looking altogether far too smug and pleased with himself. “I have my ways. See, I get to be mysterious too sometimes.”

You snort. “I ain't being mysterious; I'm giving you plausible deniability.” He's too broke to bribe the bouncer, you think, especially at a classy joint like yours. He didn't come here with anyone important—you don't see any of Midnight City's real movers and shakers tonight, no one with enough clout to get him off of the blacklist you'd slapped him on in your fit of rage the other morning. None of his detective buddies are here to open the bathroom window for him to slip in. Which means...

You groan. “Droog left the fucking door open again when he went to smoke.”

Sleuth's shoulder's fall in disappointment—it's not often he gets to know something you don't; he's charming as hell but his networking is kid stuff compared to your sprawling intelligence empire—but quickly rise again in a rueful shrug. “I _almost_ closed it behind me too, but contrary to popular belief, I don't have a death wish.”

You bury your face in your glass before he can see the sharp-toothed smile you can't repress at the mental image of Droog locked out in the alley. _You're still mad at the fucker,_ you remind yourself. But Christ is it hard to stay mad when he's close enough for you to smell that awful cheap aftershave. Speaking of which... “No death wish, huh? Coulda fooled me the other day.”

Sleuth's smile falls and he slumps over his drink, elbows on the bar. “Slick, you _can't_ still be mad about that,” he protests.

“Last guy who told me I couldn't do somethin' is currently short one intact trachea. And, you know, his life. Cause he died. From when I stabbed him in the trachea.”

“Yes, thank you, got it.” He sighs. “Slick, you've seen me with my own gun. A weapon I'm _familiar_ with. You know I can barely keep from stabbing myself in the foot when it comes to knives.” 

“And yet,” you growl, “you felt the need to use one of mine to try to _open a goddamn can of tuna._ ”

“You don't own a can opener! And I didn't know it would break it!”

You're an inch away from pulling one of the knives hidden up your sleeve and having this argument all over again, Pulchritude or no, when you notice him fumbling in the inner pocket of his coat. You pause long enough for him to pull out a plastic clamshell package. “Here,” he says, handing it over.

You take the package uncertainly. Upon closer inspection, it looks like it's a kitchen knife, with a blade about the same size and shape as the one still in two pieces on your kitchen counter.

Sleuth tries to look cool, but you see the way his index finger taps the rim of his glass, the quick anxious glance he gives you as he tries to gauge whether or not he's out of the doghouse yet. “So...” He trails off.

You let him dangle for as long as you can, turning the plastic casing over and over in your hands, but before long you can't help it anymore and you double over laughing. The rest of the noise from the bar is loud enough that your wild whooping doesn't draw undue attention, but Sleuth shifts his weight on the stool a touch nervously anyway. “So,” he tries again, “that should, uh, replace the one I broke, right?”

You shake your head as you rub tears of laughter out of the corners of your eyes. “You're a fucking idiot,” you tell him right before you lean in to attack his mouth with a flurry of sharp, biting kisses.

He brightens immediately, returning your onslaught with one of his own, making up for the bluntness of his teeth with the deftness of his tongue. “An idiot who just gave you a real nice knife,” he pants when you break for air.

Another chuckle you can't contain bubbles up as you grab his tie and slide off the barstool. “It's a fucking awful knife,” you say as you pull him towards the staircase. Your shorter stature forces him to follow hunched-over and pulling at his neck to keep it from choking him. “I wouldn't use this piece of shit to butter bread.”

“Wait, then what are we—”

Your grin widens as you continue to pull him upstairs to one of your apartments. “We're gonna have a little... education, and I'm gonna show you what a good knife can do.”


End file.
